The question

Why is it called Good Friday?

my daughter asks over newly baptized Cheerios

I want to answer but realize the question is too big

I leave it on the table

It becomes a mirror  

turned back

upon me

Reflecting  

Reversing

Refracting

A small mirror with an ornate silver handle and a filigree frame

Perfumes and powders and privilege  

An even smaller mirror-a compact

pulled out whenever she forgets

her own face

A large oval mirror on the wall

imbued with powers of prophecy 

a broken mirror

driving the dance 

of kaleidoscopic rays

an unassuming mirror

where the dead have no reflection

What do I see? 

I see Cheerios in fresh milk

A family of four around the table  

laughing and fighting to read the back of the box

yet again

having forgotten  

already

those unchanging words